Murder Served Hot

by Nancy Skopin

  Chapter 27

  We rolled into the San Mateo Garden Center lot at 7:45, and found Faulkner waiting for us. He was leaning casually against his beat-up Chevy and puffing on a cigar.

  “Stud-muffin alert,” murmured Robbyn under her breath.

  Brooke punched her in the arm and whispered, “Hush!”

  I scanned the parking lot for a VW van, but didn’t see one.

  “Good evening, Detective,” I said, as I locked Buddy in the car.

  “Ms. Hunter.” He nodded at Brooke and Robbyn. “Ladies.”

  I wondered if greeting me separately was intended to imply that I was not a lady, but dismissed the thought as irrelevant.

  “You ever get that safe open?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact we did.”

  “And?”

  “And we’ll be bringing Archer back in for additional questioning.”

  “Excellent. Did you listen to the tape?”

  “Yes. Even though we can’t use it, it’s good background information.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  Faulkner smirked and put out his cigar in a tall standing ashtray.

  “Have you had dinner?” I asked, as we stepped inside.

  “Not really. I grabbed a vending machine sandwich around two. Why do you ask?”

  “I was thinking, since you’ve been so nice about sharing information, that maybe we could take you out for a bite after the meeting.”

  Faulkner smiled. “You buying?”

  “I am,” I said, thinking he might be reluctant to accept if he knew I’d be adding the dinner tab to my expense sheet.

  The meeting room was filled with an interesting assortment of people. Some looked like professional gardeners, some like housewives. There were a few older men, and a couple of women who looked like they belonged on the society page. In the back of the room was a long table with a coffee urn and a basket labeled Non-Member Contributions. I took out my wallet and dropped a twenty into the basket.

  Brooke, Robbyn, and Faulkner took chairs in the back row while I strolled forward looking for someone in charge. Seated in the front of the room were two men and two women whom I guessed were the panel of experts invited to speak tonight. A tall distinguished looking man stood near a podium to the right of the panel. I approached and introduced myself. His name was Randolph Curtis. I asked if I could make a brief announcement during tonight’s meeting. I told him about Stanley’s death and his stolen hybrid, then took out the journal and the identikit picture.

  “I was sorry to hear about Mr. Godard’s passing,” he said. “He was a brilliant horticulturist.”

  “Do you recognize this man?” I asked, handing him a copy of the identikit sketch.

  He furrowed his brow. “He looks familiar, but I couldn’t tell you his name.”

  My pulse quickened. “Did Stanley discuss his new hybrid at the meetings?”

  “Not openly, but he did mention it to me. He was quite excited.”

  “Could someone have overheard your conversation?”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Did you discuss it with anyone else?”

  “Certainly not,” he huffed.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you, but the hybrid was stolen the same day Stanley was killed, so there may be a connection.”

  “That’s a tragedy,” said Curtis, a little abruptly. “I need to call the meeting to order. You may make your announcement after the panel discussion.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and handed him one of my business cards in case he forgot my name.

  I scanned faces as I walked toward the back of the room. I didn’t see anyone with long hair and a beard, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t here. It’s easy to change your appearance. My gaze settled on a man standing near the door, wearing sunglasses. His hair was brown, short, and wiry, and he was clean-shaven; wearing Bermuda shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and sneakers. The sunglasses, and the fact that he’d positioned himself near the exit, got my attention.

  I slid past Faulkner into the back row and plunked myself down next to Robbyn, who had, I assumed, made certain that Brooke was seated next to “the hottie.”

  Curtis called the meeting to order and everyone took seats, except the guy in the back, who hovered near the coffee urn. Having him behind me made the skin on the back of my neck crawl. Not a good sign. I was tempted to sneak outside and search the lot for the VW van, but I knew Jim would be arriving at 9:00. If the van was there, he’d find it.

  The panel was introduced and the guy in sunglasses took his coffee and perched on a vacant chair at the end of our row. I scribbled a note to Faulkner, telling him where the man was sitting and asking him to keep an eye on him when I went up to make my announcement.

  Each person on the panel gave a brief lecture followed by a question and answer period.

  By nine o’clock I found myself struggling to stay alert and was considering getting a cup of coffee from the urn when I heard my name. I looked up at Curtis, who motioned me forward. Embarrassed by my inability to remain focused, I skirted past Robbyn, Brooke, and Faulkner, glanced casually at the sunglasses guy, and strode to the front of the room.

  “Thank you,” I said to Curtis, as I moved behind the lectern.

  “My name is Nicoli Hunter,” I began. “I’m a private investigator and I’m here because I need your help.”

  I told them about Stanley’s murder, and heard a few muted gasps. Then I informed them about the stolen hybrid, which elicited several startled exclamations. Apparently this crowd was more moved by the loss of an orchid than the death of one of their members.

  “Although the hybrid was stolen,” I continued. “Stanley’s notes on the process were left behind.” I took the journal out of my purse and showed it to the group, glancing at the man in the back as I did so. He was on his feet now, his sunglasses pointed in my direction. I replaced the book in my bag and held up the identikit sketch. “We think this man may be involved.” I handed a stack of identikit copies to a man in the front row. “Could you pass these out please?”

  I gave Faulkner a look and he got up and moved toward the door.

  I returned to the podium. “I’m hoping one of you will be able to identify this man,” I said. “He drives an old orange VW van and he may recently have changed his appearance.”

  I watched the members’ faces as the pictures were passed around. One woman looked sharply at me after glancing at the sketch. She nodded slightly, then turned to look around the room, stopping when she saw the man in the Hawaiian shirt. She turned back to me and nodded again.

  Faulkner was blocking the exit and the sunglasses guy looked nervous. His attention was divided between me and Faulkner, his head rotating back and forth between us. Then he approached the coffee urn and refilled his cup. I realized what he was planning and hoped Faulkner had seen it too.

  “I’ll be in back after the meeting,” I said, “if anyone wants to talk to me.”

  The man in the back was moving toward the door as I rushed down the aisle. I was halfway there when he threw the scalding hot coffee into Faulkner’s face, shoved him aside, and bolted out the door. Faulkner covered his seared face with his hands and bent at the waist.

  I tossed my purse to Brooke as I ran toward the door. “Stay here,” I shouted over my shoulder.

  I hit the parking lot at a jog, unzipping my fanny pack holster as I ran. I drew the Ruger and paused, listening for the sound of feet pounding the pavement or an engine starting. Instead all I heard was barking. Buddy was sounding the alarm. He’d remembered the guy’s scent from Stanley’s greenhouse and the Whole Foods garage. I took out my cell and speed dialed Jim.

  “Sutherland.”

  “Are you here?”

  “Yeah. What’s up?
”

  “A guy just ran out of the building. Short brown hair, clean-shaven, wearing shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. Where are you?”

  “I’m on the street, and your man just passed me.”

  “On foot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Follow him, but be careful. He’s probably armed.”

  “Gotcha.”

  I heard Jim’s engine catch through the cell and started running toward the street. When I reached the sidewalk I turned both ways, but there was no sign of the man or of Jim’s Honda. I headed south and heard two gunshots in stereo through the cell and maybe a block away to the west.

  “Jim!”

  “I’m okay. Son of a bitch shot out my tire. I’m pursuing on foot.”

  I ran toward the sound of the shots. “Keep your distance,” I shouted into the phone, “but try to get his plate number.”

  “He’s in the van,” said Jim, breathing hard now. “There’s mud on the rear plate.”

  I rounded a corner and saw Jim positioned behind a Sycamore, his Tokarev automatic in his hand. The VW van was ten yards away moving toward the intersection. I kept running, grateful for all the hours I’d spent on the treadmill. The van was sputtering and coughing but still pulling away from me. I raised the Ruger, took aim, and fired at one of the rear tires. I hit the bumper. Maybe I should spend more time at the firing range and less at the gym.

  The van’s windows were down and as it made a right hand turn I saw the muzzle flash and ducked just as a bullet zinged over my head. I hit the ground and the van disappeared around the corner. I couldn’t believe he’d gotten away from me, again.

  Jim and I left his wounded Honda parked on the street and walked back to the garden center. We went inside and found Brooke applying a cold compress to Faulkner’s face. The room was in an uproar.

  The woman who had nodded at me during the meeting approached. “Did you catch him?” she asked.

  “No. He got away.”

  “I always knew there was something wrong with that man.”

  “I don’t suppose you know his name.”

  “I don’t remember his first name, but his last name is Cross. I remember it because he always seems angry. I thought the name was appropriate.”

  “Bernard Cross?”

  “Yes, that’s it!”

  I turned to Faulkner. “How are you doing?”

  “He needs to go to the hospital,” said Brooke.

  “I’m okay,” said Faulkner. “I closed my eyes just in time.”

  He pulled the wet towel away from his face, which was swollen, red, and blotchy.

  “You look like hell,” I said. “I think Brooke is right. You need to see a doctor.”

  “Later,” said Faulkner.

  “The guy got away after shooting out Jim’s tire. He also took a shot at me and missed. We have a name though. Bernard Cross.”

  Faulkner took out his cell. “I need to call this in.”

  Chapter 28

  The San Mateo PD arrived and took statements from everyone, then examined Jim’s car. They agreed to allow Faulkner to impound the car, even though it wasn’t his jurisdiction, so the bullet in the tire could be compared to the one that had killed Stanley Godard. I was sure the ballistics would match.

  Brooke and I finally convinced Faulkner that he needed medical attention. We eased him into the passenger seat of his Chevy and Brooke drove him to the San Mateo Medical Center on 39th Avenue. Robbyn, Buddy, and I followed in my car.

  While Faulkner was in with the doctor, Buddy and I waited outside the emergency room entrance. I lit a cigarette and called Bill to tell him what was happening. He sounded distracted and I knew without asking that he was involved up to his eyeballs in the search for Nina Jezek.

  By the time Faulkner had been treated and his face and neck coated with goo, it was almost 11:00.

  “You must be starving,” I said, as we all stepped outside.

  “I am, but I need to run Cross for priors and see if I can get an address.”

  “Can’t that wait an hour?” Brooke asked. “You need to eat.”

  He looked at her through his swollen eyelids and I caught the spark of interest. “Maybe I have time for a burger,” he said.

  Brooke insisted on driving Faulkner, so Robbyn and I took my car to the nearest fast food joint. We went inside and placed our orders. Faulkner was on the phone the whole time, so Brooke took the liberty of ordering him a chef salad instead of a burger. I ordered two cheeseburgers; one for me and one for Buddy. We collected our food and sat down at a table near the window so I could keep an eye on the parking lot, my dog, and my BMW.

  Faulkner looked disconsolately at his salad and said, “Cross has two priors for aggravated assault and a sealed juvenile record. According to the DVM, he lives at 4333 Olympic Avenue.” His eyes locked onto the burger I was eating, then moved hungrily to Buddy’s still wrapped burger.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I know that address. That’s the San Mateo Bowling Center. They’re one of my clients.” I remembered my theory that Cross lived in his van. Maybe he parked in the Bowling Center lot at night. Or maybe he worked there. I knew they were open until 1:00 a.m. on Fridays. I checked my watch. It was 11:20.

  I shared my thoughts with Faulkner as he picked at his salad. He was still eyeing Buddy’s burger so I went and got a plastic knife from the utensil bin, cut mine in half, and handed over the untouched portion.

  He said, “Thanks,” took a huge bite and mumbled, “Maybe we should stop by the bowling alley and take a look around. See if anyone recognizes the picture.”

  “Good idea,” I said.

  “Eat your salad,” said Brooke.

  Faulkner finished the last bite of burger and forked up some lettuce and ham. Robbyn winked at me.

  Before we left the restaurant I tossed the bun, tomato, and pickles from Buddy’s burger into the trash. Wheat gives him a rash, tomatoes are bad for dogs, and he doesn’t like pickles. I quickly fed him, gave him half a bottle of water, and then used the rest of the water to rinse my hands.

  By the time we pulled into the Bowling Center lot it was close to midnight. There were several cars in the lot, but the van wasn’t among them.

  I called Faulkner on my cell. “I’m going to drive around the block and check the side streets. Don’t go inside until I get back. I have a stack of those identikit pictures in my bag.”

  He saluted me through the car window and closed his phone, turning to face Brooke.

  I pulled back onto the street and Robbyn said, “I told you so.”

  “What?”

  “She really likes him, and now that he’s injured, her maternal instincts have kicked in. That man doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “You’re right,” I said. I was thinking that they could both do a lot worse.

  I circled the block searching for the VW van, drove up and down a couple of alleys, and eventually gave up and returned to the lot in front of the bowling alley, where Brooke and Faulkner were waiting for us. As Faulkner stepped out of the Chevy I saw that he was on his cell again. He turned to me as he ended the call.

  “We got ballistics back on the round that hit your friend’s tire.” He lowered his voice as he continued. “It doesn’t match the slug that killed Godard. Doesn’t mean Cross isn’t our killer. He might have more than one gun.”

  “Huh,” I said. I know, eloquent.

  We entered the Bowling Center and split up, showing the identikit drawing to all the employees in the bar, the restaurant, and the bowling alley. I waited in line behind a couple of bowlers who were paying for games and shoes, then approached the middle-aged woman who manned the counter. Her name tag read Deanna.

  I presented the drawing, took out my PI license, and asked, “Do you reco
gnize this man?”

  Deanna’s eyebrows rose as she gazed at the picture, then her wide eyes met mine. “He’s the night janitor, Bernie Cross. Why, has he done something wrong?”

  “We just need to speak with him. What hours does he work?”

  “I’m not sure when he leaves, but he comes in a little before one a.m., when we close.”

  “Does Bernie drive a VW van?”

  “Why yes. How did you know that?”

  “He was seen in the area of an explosion last Saturday. We just need to ask him if he saw anything. Please don’t tell him I was looking for him. I don’t want to scare him off.”

  Deanna nodded mutely, then turned to a team of bowlers who were waiting impatiently behind me.

  I found Faulkner in the bar holding a glass of ice water against his face and wincing. Brooke and Robbyn were sitting at the table with him and they all had frustrated looks on their faces.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nobody we talked to admits to knowing Cross,” Faulkner said.

  “Well, the woman at the rental counter knows him. Bernard Cross is the night janitor here. Did I tell you he’s registered to exhibit a new breed of orchid at the Santa Barbara show this weekend?”

  Faulkner shook his head and grimaced.

  “Deanna said he comes in a little before one.” I checked my watch. “We have forty-five minutes to kill. Does anybody want to bowl?”

  Robbyn and Brooke both raised their hands and bounced in their seats like a couple of school kids, chanting, “I do, I do!”

  Faulkner laughed, then winced again.

  “Did the ER doctor give you anything for the pain?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but I need to stay sharp.”

  “Well, since you’re in too much pain to roll a ball, how about you keep score for us?”